MOVIE STAH

Well, not exactly the Big Screen.  When we got back from Camp, there was an email message from a casting ‘wrangler’ via our scooter club.  They were looking for scooter owners to appear in a commercial they were shooting.  Well, all right!  $120 bucks for the “talent” and $75 for the scoot.  All these years of living in LaLa land and finally my big break.  After some email exchanges (I was supposed to bring 3 changes of “hipster” clothes; say, What?  Do they really want ME?  Actually, they really wanted the scoot, I was just a necessary evil.), I accepted, and Tuesday morning, with Loni off to work at UCLA, I motored all the way across town to East LA where the shoot was to be done.  I’m not a big fan of freeway traffic, so it was on surface streets the whole way and took me about 1 1/2 hours.  Thanks to Google Maps the night before, I found my way there without any drama.  Checked in about 9:30 with the cast manager, and plunked down to wait.  And wait.  It appears that about 90% of a shoot is down time.  I and one other guy were at least a generation older than the rest of the cast, but everyone was very cool, if not exactly “hip.”  They announced they also wanted us to act as non-scooterist crowd-extras.  Beats sitting around.  We were called to wardrobe, and apparently I’m unhip, because they outfitted me with a shirt that escaped from Kramer’s closet.  I thought I was already hip.

Hmph.  I had to give the wardrobe lady my driver’s license as security.  As if I was going to run off with that?  It’s all for naught, anyway.  The commercial being shot was for a Russian cell phone company, and will never be seen over here unless it gets posted to uTube or something.  Not a great loss, from what I saw.  The conceit was that this was supposed to be a fancy club, red carpet and all, with “celebs” posing for “paparazzi,” with us “crowdies” jumping all over and waving to the hotties. 

Well, they thought they were hot.  The poor girl in the white dress had to keep tugging it down about every ten seconds.

Finally, it was time for the real stars.  Scooters!  Man your machines and form up over here.  And wait.  And wait . . .  Hmmm.  Look how “hip” my fellows are dressed.  I needn’t have worried.

OK!  Lights!  Camera!  Action!  Scooters, get on your machines and mass up down the end of the drive.  And . . . wait.

So, after all this, what did we end up doing?  Bunching up like you see above, then, on cue, ride about 100 feet toward the camera and come to a stop.  That’s great!  One more time!  That’s great!  One more time!  That’s great!  One . . . , well, you get the picture.  This went on ad nauseum about 15 times.  Each time we went back to group up, we had to sit there for five minutes, engines idling and overheating (two dropped out).  Did I mention it was 94 degrees?  No?  Well, it was a sauna.  At last we were done, and they fed us lunch at about 3:30.  Of course, we extras had to wait while all the crew got to cut in front of the line.  This, as it turns out, was a non-union job, with all participants being paid in cash so there’s no paper trail.  There were a lot of union folks there on the QT, picking up a little rent money. 

They were packing up all the gear, so I thought we were done.  Silly me.  The email DID say it was a 10 hour shoot.  They were just done at this location.  Now we were moving about 7 or 8 miles to the warehouse district downtown.  Actually, it was the abandoned warehouse district, as in mean streets.  Yikes, this is where the tv cop shows all film their dumped body scenes.

 

The producer popped up and warned everyone to stay within the fenced area as there were crazy types out there.  Everyone began to close ranks and we looked like a herd circling to protect its young.  We were here to film something inside the abandoned warehouse, but no one knew what.

Once again we did a lot of standing around and waiting for something to happen.  All it did was to get dark.  Some old hack starting extolling acting wisdom to the desperate wanna-bees, and they gathered around hoping for the pearl that would unlock their careers.

I drifted over to listen and heard him say:  “There’s text and subtext.  You know what I mean?  The text is the written words.  Ah, but the subtext is between the lines.  It’s what WE bring to the role.”  That’s when I promptly drifted away.  No one’s career would be made this night.

With darkness approaching, and me in a place I’m not quite sure how to navigate home from (I’d never been in this part of LA before), I was glad to finally get the call to enter the warehouse.  Or so I thought.  Ugh.  Peeling paint, tons of dust kicked into the air aggravated by a fog machine of all things.  This was supposed to be a rave site, with a DJ on a platform and the most irritating strobe lights I’ve ever had to endure.  Our mission was to jump about and wave our arms over our heads while music blared, and to continue to do so when the music stopped while they did the dialogue parts (with us gyrating in the background).  It was hilarious.  During the silences we could hear the Russian-speaking actors doing their lines as we pantomimed discoing our brains out.  Sorry, no photos of this insanity.  What I really wanted was a respirator.  All I could think about was that peeling paint in this ancient warehouse being from the lead era for sure.  I was sorely tempted to abandon the dough and cut out.  But we persevered and, at about 9:30, came the final “cut!” 

I made a beeline for the door and a fast trot to the paywagon.  I didn’t want to be at the end of a long line waiting one by one to get paid.  At least they didn’t abscond.  I duly signed the release, held it and the cash up for a photo to prove I got both, and boogied.  By now it’s pitch black.  I could see the downtown LA skyline off in the distance (we were way to the east), so I simply kept zigging and zagging until I got over that way and to familiar ground.  I have to say you really feel vulnerable riding out in the open on a scooter on deserted warehouse streets with few lights and fewer signs.  But all was good once I got to downtown business area and heading west.  Another hour, and home.  Rest assured, my fans, this was not a career move.

STOPOVERS

After leaving Camp, we bombed down Highway 50 to Sacramento and its airport.  There, we left Mom and Tina to catch their flight to Indy, via a change of planes in Phoenix.  They didn’t get home until nearly midnight, EDT, but it was only 9 p.m. by their body clocks.  We were sorry to say goodbye.  We then headed off to S.F. and the kids.  Usually, I hate this drive because of the very heavy traffic, especially once you get to the Berkeley area, but this year, for whatever reason, it was a breeze.  Almost no stopping, and we flew into the City.  We stayed at John & Meghan’s.  Alia, alas, was stuck in Philadelphia for a work assignment, so we missed her.  Like the traffic, the weather was cooperative, and we enjoyed a walk in a park just up the hill a bit from J&M’s place.  Even a distant view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

We enjoyed a nice visit, yummy meals (thank you, J&M), and were on our way south by noon on Sunday.  We took Hwy 101 so that we could stop off and see our old college friend, Paul, in San Luis Obispo.  Too bad he’s not in the B&B business, he could clean up.  We stayed the night, and he treated us to very fine wines

and equally great grilling. 

Yup.  That’s three bottles for the three of us, and each of them was superb.  The food was up to the wines (delicious grilled salad greens and extras not shown),

and we essentially laughed and lip-smacked the balmy evening away. 

Thank you Paul, master chef and host!  Bobby Flay, watch out.

 

HI HO, OFF TO CAMP WE GO

If this is July, it must be time for our annual return to the Stanford Alumni Association’s Sierra Camp.  We first started going back in 1982, when Michael was just four months old and John was not yet five years.  Now they’re college grads, married, and well into careers.  Decades.  My god.  Despite all those visits, we never tire of it.  This is where we get the chance to bring a changing cast of extended family, and friends, to our favorite spot on earth.  This year we again had Mom, and also Tina, my sister-in-law, also from Indy. 

The weather was absolutely superb.  Cloudless, until the last day or so, always balmy in the high 70’s, almost no wind the whole time.  Bad for sailing, but very nice for everything else.  Looking across Fallen Leaf Lake, that’s Cathedral Peak to the left (it looms over the Camp, which is in the trees at the extreme left) and Mt. Tallac with the snow on the right.

As usual, the girls spent a lot of time in the art and craft sessions.  Under threat of severe sanctions, no pictures of those activities, as Loni seemed always to open her mouth just as I snapped the shutter.  They all did great work in every session.

I joined a fairly rigorous hike on the 2nd day, Monday, which, at 6400+ feet, was a bit too soon for this sea-level dweller.  We puffed and panted our way up the Eagle Falls trail to one of the Velma Lakes, all in the Desolation Wilderness just SW of Tahoe.  Tons of water this year from the late and heavy winter snows, with rivers and streams where we don’t usually find them.  My legs were leaden by the time we got back.

On Tuesday, Loni came along on a stroll hike on the Rubicon Trail.  Note:  despite the staff hiking leader’s misimpression, this is NOT the famed Jeep trail.  However, it starts at Emerald Bay, and ends at Rubicon Bay, close to where the vehicular one finishes, so they share the name.  This trail is about 5 miles long, and skirts the shore of Lake Tahoe almost the entire way.  In the summertime, it’s very popular with seemingly every tourist in the basin.  The parking lots were full up, so we had to backtrack along highway 89 to park along the roadway and then hike back to the trailhead.

We had about a dozen in our group, so the conversation was lively all the way.  Many of the “oldtimers,” like ourselves, have stopped coming as their families aged.  We miss seeing them, but it’s good to meet new faces.  The hike is fairly easy, without any real elevation gain, except for rolling climbs and drops that get you a couple hundred feet above the lake.  It’s a beautiful hike, despite not being true wilderness.

The paddlewheeler is a tour boat out of South Lake Tahoe, and was just exiting Emerald Bay.  Tahoe retains its remarkably clear water, given all the development that has sprung up around all shores.  Kudos to the Tahoe Basin Management Unit and related entities for the good fight to impose strict development controls on waste and runoff.  It has preserved pristine views like this:

Even a stroll hike deserves a rest stop.  This is where we broke for lunch.  Even PB&J tastes good in this setting.  (I’m smiling, honest; I just have a crooked face!)

Wednesday is the traditional beach games day at camp.  No tug-of-war this year, but the usual limbo contest, egg-throwing competition, water-skiing demos (not particularly successful) by the staff.  We make a beeline for the shade.  The UV rating at that altitude is brutal.  Games day is always a favorite of Mom, because that’s the day she can get a hot dog!  There must be something to them, ‘cause at 88 she’s still going strong.

Although still pretty lively for her years, Mom has had to make some accommodations.  Even without the high altitude she gets winded on lengthy walks.  But we wanted her to see the local waterfalls which are about 3/4 of a mile up the road (and up a hill).  This is probably the biggest runoff year in decades, and the falls are at their peak.  We got her to agree to attempt it, as long as she could bring her folding “golfer’s” chair along to rest along the way.  We just went very slowly and stopped to examine every bit of flora that we saw.  Eventually we got her hauled up the rocks and she thought the view was well worth it.  You can see two figures, center and right, in the middle of the falls.  They turned out to be an incredibly athletic brother-sister pair (their parents and grandparents were watching next to us) who were climbing all over the falls (they went up the center rocks from this point).  All I could think of was the recent tragedies in Yosemite at Vernal Falls.  Fortunately, this pair made it over, around, and off the falls without mishap.

  She’s, uh, pretty scenic, huh?

For us, no trip to Camp is complete without a visit to our favorite trail, the wildflower hike from Carson Pass to Lake Winnemucca.  Mom last did this with us when she was 82.  We took off on Thursday morning, bailing the car out from the parking area and making the one hour drive from Camp to the Pass.  This is a gorgeous hike every year, and with the retained snow packs, was even more spectacular this time around.  Lake Winnemucca lies at the base of the left side of that mountain (Round Top) behind us. 

Because of the late winter, the flowers were just beginning to sprout, and then mostly near the beginning of the trail at Frog Lake (below).  We saw some iris there, and elsewhere lots of mule’s ear, lupen, and other things I can’t identify.  I think Frog Lake is really a nifty spot.

We did encounter some snow packs along the trail, but nothing that posed any problems other than the occasional slip and slide.  There was a lot of pinkish algae (or something) on the snow that showed up much more visibly through polarized sunglasses.  Amazing how stuff grows everywhere.

The trail is about 2 1/2 miles each way, with only 600 feet of elevation gain from the trailhead at the pass, so it’s pretty much a stroll again, albeit starting at 8,500 feet.  That’s why we leave it for the end of the week, when we’re more acclimated.  The goal is the ultimate serenity of lunch and a nap at the lake.  This year, for the first time in our memory, there was a huge ice flow stretching across the center of the lake.  Unlike years past, we didn’t see anyone this time jumping into the water off the rocks on the far side.  Yeah, do you think I love it?

 

Right at this shot, the batteries in the camera expired, and yours truly hadn’t thought to pack spares.  I had about twenty of them back at the cabin.  No boy scout, me!

Camp is many things.  Our children, and just about everyone else’s in this week, grew up here.  There are always kid’s groups charging about on one adventure or the other, the egg drop contest is the usual mess, the staff “talent” show and water ballet is hit or-miss (almost all “hit” this year!), the food, especially desserts, is generally scrumptious, and the pure peace of the place is heavenly.

Yeah, Mom.  Family Camp.  It’s like grabbing your own personal sunbeam.

FLIPPIN’ BIRD

Is it old age?  Creeping senility?  Utter stupidity?

Whatever.

Like the good eco-sheep we are, we have switched to using reusable bags for our grocery shopping.  We got a couple from Trader Joe’s, one from Ralph’s, but mostly we use shapeless canvass bags that are legacies of various professional meetings or college reunions.

Went shopping last weekend, and hadn’t used the car in four or five days afterwards.  Loni went to fetch something from the interior and came back in saying, “phewwww.”  It smells like an animal died underneath the car.  I checked, and sure enough, it was foul (pun approaching).  I got down and looked underneath as best I could.  Nothing.  Opened the windows to let the car air out overnight.  Next day, even worse. 

So, you say, open the trunk, dummy.  But what could have gotten inside the trunk?

It was fowl.

It seems that when we did our shopping Sunday morning, I did the unloading and carrying in.  We had purchased a whole chicken, like the one above.  The bagger had put it in its own small canvas bag.  We had a lot of empty ones sitting on the floor of the trunk.  I unloaded everything except that bag, which was sitting in a pile of empty bags, and looking like it was one of them.

So, for five days, it sat in the trunk, in the sun.  I can tell you, solar ovens really work!  What a stench.  The culprit, and its bag, now reside in the bin, which is attracting flies like crazy.  We can only hope the coyotes don’t get, er, wind of it before trash pickup Tuesday morning.

ON PARADE

One of the many nice things about our community is the annual 4th of July Parade.  It’s either timeless or caught in a time warp.  I swear we saw some of the same floats and bands 30 years ago, and the mayor’s car hasn’t changed in 55+years.

  I’m particularly fond of this ride, as it is the spitting image of my first car, a ‘56 Chrysler Newport:  the Great White Whale.  The mayor’s car actually is, I believe, a ‘55 Imperial, which got the tailfin treatment a year ahead of the Chrysler line.  Mine was a hardtop and painted the same white.  I drove that whale back and forth cross the country twice, from Indiana to Palo Alto, back in college days and almost entirely pre-interstates.  Used it to pick up Loni from her dorm the first night I met her.  Many good memories of that old tank.  Two-speed push-button automatic.  You could keep it in first up to about 50mph, and it ate gas like there’s no tomorrow.  At 30 cents a gallon, we didn’t care.  Ah, youth.  I digress.

Anyway, the parade had that an air of recycledness that competed with nostalgia.  That’s the peril of becoming an old fart.  But, not everyone has lived in the same place for 38 years, so the enthusiasm of the newer residents kept this year’s edition lively.  This is the 50th anniversary of the local high school, so it got a cake float.

Speaking of lively, one of the original teachers when the school opened in 1961 is still teaching there . . . at age 92!  Both our boyos had her for English, as did our niece, Noelle, back in the ‘90’s.  She was and is a tough old bird, but her students love(d) her.  I guess those are her great-grandchildren behind her.  Keep goin’ Mama G!

 

As always, the bands were the draw for me.  They ranged from the local, pick-ups, to the impeccable Marines, and the band in white which came all the way from Rockport, Illinois.  Hope they had a good time; they were a treat to hear.

We also had groups from Mexico that were very colorful, with some outfits that looked like escapees from the latest Transformers movie.

The tubas rocked, the police rolled (we’ve got money in the budget for those things??), the pipes wailed, and the underwear brigade did their close-formation drills.

Afterwards, we lugged our chairs home, and Loni set to work fixing a scrumptious 4th dinner that was as good as it looks.  Yum.

I’ll spare you a shot of the cherries-topped cheesecake.  Did I mention my cholesterol tests just came back with flying colors?  Later, Mom opted to stay home to watch the east coast fireworks on TV.  She claimed we walked her legs off at the parade.  Loni and I walked over to the high school and watched a very nice fireworks show to end a perfect 4th. 

I love living in a small town!

CLASSIC SCOOTS

Last Tuesday night we piled on the scoot and headed off for the Petersen Automotive Museum to check out the new Scooter exhibit, and to attend a special curator talk about the history of scooters.

Good thing we took the scoot.  Getting out of our end of town to head to the mid-Wilshire area is becoming darn near impossible.  The intersections getting out of Santa Monica and thru Westwood are gridlocked.  You can spend a half hour getting through one light.  Unless, of course, you are scootin’ and can go between the stopped cars.  We did this repeatedly and saved a huge amount of time.  And only clipped one mirror in the process.  :(  My bad.  I did not stop.

The talk was fine and surprisingly well attended for a Tuesday night.  The exhibit was superb.  There wasn’t a printed guide, and I didn’t take notes, so you’ll just have to make do with the photos.

I have no idea what’s up with the big, white flatbed scoot.  The cushion area was about 3x6 feet.  No handles, so any passengers would be sliding off at the first turn.  I particularly liked the design of the tubular frame at bottom center.  Elegantly simple.  The tail light is incorporated into the end of the tube under the seat.

I don’t know why, but the tall “trashcan” scoots like the upper right appealed to me.  Such a goofy design.  I hope the rickshaw had a very slow speed limit.  That canopy would fill with air and take off, it seems to me.

We caught the displays with at least one goof, which we pointed out to the curator.

Not!  We have a GTS250.  Cut those mpg ratings in half and you’re about right. 

This was an excellent exhibit, if you have any interest at all in scoots..

LAS SECUELAS

The wedding was on Friday, but we weren’t due to fly home until Sunday, so John & Meghan had done a lot of planning to arrange a charter boat on Saturday to take everyone to either snorkel or to loaf on a beach accessible only by the sea.  Actually, we got to do both.  The weather continued to cooperate, and we got calm seas and blue skies for our one-hour voyage.

First stop was a look-see at Los Arcos, with its caves and many other dive boats. 

Since the beach for the non-snorkelers was further south, we just cruised around here and then pushed on.  We got to Las Animes, dropped off the loafers, and transferred the rest of us to a smaller launch to keep going south to the rocky coves where the fish were to be found.  Things got tense when the Jolly Roger was spotted,

but our lack of plunder was obvious and we were left in peace.  Until, that is, the feeding frenzy of the dreaded saltwater piranhas.

 

Well, they coulda been piranhas.  They were beautiful, regardless.  When we plopped overboard, we immediately were in the midst of a huge school of these things.  They were the most colorful that we saw, and by far the greatest in number, but we did see a decent variety for this part of the coast.  The water was nice and warm.  You could stay in for hours if you wanted, but we were done after about one.  We had brought our masks, but not our fins, so swimming barefoot got tiring after a while.  Yeah, pansies.  I know.

We made it back to the beach and met up with the slugs, who were several drinks ahead of us.  The tables and umbrellas were courtesy of the El Coral restaurant behind us which, while having pretty good food, easily takes the award for the most manana service we encountered.  For the food, that is;  drinks were brought out pronto.

  The beach had a parasail operation going, and they managed to drop every rider we saw right on the designated landing spot as gentle as can be.  I still wasn’t tempted, however.  Those guys were getting really high.

We were content to kick back with a cerveza and some shade

 

and watch the newlyweds do the newlywed things.

Sunday it was time to pack up, take one last dip in the infinity pool, and taxi our way out to the airport.  The cabs here don’t work on a meter, but rather a zone system.  A fixed rate for each zone traveled.  For the most part, the rates were reasonable, no one tried to gouge us, and the cabbies were friendly.  Try saying that on a trip to New York.  At the airport, we couldn’t check in right away as no one was home at the Alaska Airlines counter.  The shopping was limited, but I was REALLY tempted to get this for Loni to wear.

Alas, at $USD 89, it was a pricy joke.  At last the agents opened the counters;  however, we ran into a laborious process to get checked in, the result not of the Mexican equivalent of the TSA (everything is “sorta” checked by hand, no Xrays), but rather Alaska Airline failing to have sufficient agents to handle the crowd.  We were the fifth couple in our line.  It took us an hour and twenty minutes to get to the agent.  I was not a happy camper.

Ah, well, I guess there has to be a transition back to reality from a magical week.  Adios, Puerto Vallarta, y gracias!